Vivat Crescat Floreat
by JamesLuver
Summary: [Showverse] "She tells him that she has been grappling with things she can no longer ignore. Things that were as dormant as those three petrified dragon eggs once were. Things that came alive inside her not from fire, but in the icy, barren snows of Winterfell." Snapshots of Daenerys' relationship with Jorah in the early years of her reign.
1. De Novo

**A/N:** I was inspired to write this by a Kinktober prompt list. You can see how well that went when we're in November and I'm only just posting my first.

I've already got this exact fic started from Daenerys' POV, which is why I've deliberately left it light. But I've done a few 'First Time' fics for my main pairing so figured I'd try it for another. I fully intend to finish the Daenerys one which will cover all of the missing stuff.

This is set in the same universe as _Veritas, Unitas, Caritas_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Game of Thrones_.

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_Vivat Crescat Floreat_

_1\. De Novo_

One by one, the members of Daenerys' small council drift away to their beds, stifling yawns, eyelids drooping, fatigued and drained by the hard work and oppressive heat. It's no surprise. Mere months into Daenerys' reign and there is still plenty to keep them occupied. They're only a couple of weeks back from their jaunt around the more central lands in the Six Kingdoms—Daenerys' ingenious plan has done wonders for her reputation amongst the common folk, but there is still plenty to do in order to cement her place in the history books as the most beloved ruler. And no one is more dedicated to the cause than Daenerys herself is, determined to be involved in every meeting and problem and decision made.

And there is no one more determined to help her than him; he has vowed to stay by her side until the moment she may not need him anymore, and he will never break that solemn vow.

Not that Daenerys has been particularly easy these last few days. The summer in King's Landing has been almost unbearably hot for a northern man, even one such as he who has been acclimatised to the Essosi heat for so many years. Daenerys, dragon that she is, has never had a problem with the heat before, but there is something restless and frustrated about her now, and he can't work it out.

But then she catches his eyes across the table. Chews her lip. Holds his gaze.

And makes him feel as if he is surely dreaming yet another achingly soft dream that will only end in his heartbreak when he awakens.

Because she starts to reminisce about days gone by, adventures shared between them, a tender look in her eyes.

Tells him that she has been a fool for years.

He tries to protest such a ridiculous notion, but she overrides him, continues as if she hasn't heard him.

Tells him that she has been grappling with things she can no longer ignore. Things that were as dormant as those three petrified dragon eggs once were. Things that came alive inside her not from fire, but in the icy, barren snows of Winterfell.

Things that emerged with the instinct to survive as they fought death itself on the battlefield, surrounded by ice and fire, fire and blood.

He doesn't know what to say, what to think.

She doesn't give him the chance to, crossing the council room to his side.

Cranes her neck so she can look up into his face with those deep amethyst eyes.

Everything about her face is _soft_. Soft eyes. A soft, affectionate smile. A soft touch to his sleeve.

Soft voice as she says the words he's heard a thousand times over in his dreams but never thought he'd hear aloud, in reality.

"I want you."

She leans up on her tiptoes and catching his mouth beneath her own.

Delicate. Lingering.

Like coming home.

Jorah is frozen in pace, but it does not deter her; she is fire and he is ice, and ice cannot possibly stay frozen in the presence of such heat. Her arms move around his neck, her body nestles itself against his, her tongue teases at his lips.

He breaks. Enfolds her in his arms too, angles his head to kiss her better, swallows her soft sound of victory as he gluttons on his wildest dream.

There's no time to think. Instinct takes over.

Before he knows what's happening, she's tugging him from the council room. Her grip on his hand is the commanding grip of a queen used to getting what she wants, and he will never be anything other than her servant. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, his steps uneven as he stumbles after her, feeling as if he's been out drinking with Tyrion Lannister.

Daenerys stops him at the bend before her chambers.

"Wait here," she demands of him, pinning him against the wall with the look in her eyes. Without waiting for him to nod, she sweeps around the corner, regal and composed once more. He hears her speak in rapid Valyrian—in this dream-like state he'd forgotten all about the fact that she has Unsullied guards posted at her quarters—and there are confused voices in return. But Unsullied do not question orders, and a few seconds later, after a few more words, there are retreating footsteps.

Daenerys reappears, holding out her hand to him. He hesitates, then grasps it. She pulls him along the now-deserted corridor to her chambers. With every step closer, his core temperature rises. Gods, what is he doing?

He doesn't know, but Daenerys seems to know her mind completely.

She closes the door behind them, shutting out the rest of the world, and then she's on him again, forcing him back a couple of paces with the voracity of her enthusiasm, her mouth hot and ardent over his. Her fingers work furiously at the intricate buttons at her throat, the layers of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men and the Rhoyner, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, all of it falling away garment after garment, those layers of her protection peeled back until only Daenerys the woman remains, free from all constraints, bared to him completely.

Jorah is rooted to the spot, his mouth drier than the Red Waste. He tries to keep his eyes on her face but it is impossible; of their own volition his eyes travel down her body, over the luscious, womanly curves that have only grown more erotically pronounced since her time eating the rich food of King's Landing, those perfect, _perfect _breasts which would fit so well in his hands, the rosebud pink nipples that just beg to be puckered by a worshipping mouth, and—_gods_—the thatch of silver hair that teases her mound. His cock aches in the confines of his breeches and Daenerys' eyes flash darker. She pushes past him, perches herself on the edge of her bed.

"Undress, ser," she says.

But Jorah remains rooted, and he can't stop his voice from trembling. "Your Grace, I—"

"No," she interrupts him. "Daenerys. Here I am Daenerys. Say it."

"Daenerys," he whispers. "We shouldn't—"

"Were you not listening to what I said in the council room?"

"Yes, I was—"

"Do you think I'm not speaking truly?"

"No, of course not—"

"I want you," she repeats, her voice low and throaty. "Every time I see you I burn for you, and only you can quench the flames. Have your feelings changed? Do you no longer love me?"

_I'll always love you_, he swore to her once, his way of saying goodbye. He'd been certain that he would never see her again, that the greyscale would claim him—not that he'd ever let it go far enough to affect his mind.

"Always," he says now, an oath more sacred than the ones he swore upon becoming Lord Commander of her Queensguard.

"Then show me," she says. "Come here and show me."

How can he resist?

He kicks off his boots and unlaces his breeches.

She crooks an eyebrow at him. A flirty invitation.

He creeps towards the bed, the stone warm beneath the soles of his feet. The whole room is too warm, crackling with the weight of expectation. Sweat—a product of the weather or his nerves?—beads on his forehead. His pulse throbs.

Daenerys reaches out and takes his hand. Tugs. An order.

And the catalyst.

Her hands help him with the layers of his tunic, shedding them one by one. However, before she can wrest his shirt from him, he pauses.

There can be no denying that his body is a mess. Scar tissue on scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and melted. The scars cannot be escaped, for they cover every inch of his chest like a grotesque mould.

He doesn't give them much thought most days.

But most days he isn't about to bare himself to the woman he loves.

The anxiety rises up within his throat, making it difficult to breathe. But Daenerys is there with him, evidently noticing the change in his demeanour, reading his mind as she reads Drogon's.

"It's okay," she whispers. "I don't care about any of that. I'm not afraid."

She doesn't think she is, but she hasn't seen them. He's as disfigured as the Hound was, except his scars are not always on show. They're hard to look at, even for him, and he is desensitised to them now.

But her hands move with surety over him, fingers dancing over his shoulders, teasing the shirt free. What can he do but let her do what she desires? He stiffens as the warm air laps at his skin and braces himself for the surprised revulsion he expects to see on her face.

There's none. Daenerys' gaze does not waver. _There she stands_. Slowly, she reaches out to trace a finger over the scar over his heart. He flinches.

"Does it hurt?" she asks immediately.

"No. I'm just not used to being touched here."

"Then I shall endeavour to change that." She leans in, replaces her finger with her lips, and he trembles at the silk of her tongue against him. Of their own accord his hand moves to her jaw and eases her head up so that he can mesh his mouth against hers. She clutches at his hips, fingers a burning brand.

Time is a messy tangle of limbs after that. Daenerys twines her fingers through his hair, lays back on the bed and wraps her legs around his torso. His breath stutters as he feels the squeeze of those muscular thighs, defined again by the relentless hours she's spent on horseback recently. She rears her head up to kiss him, smothering his groan as her toes brush the back of his knees. Her hand slips down his back, fingernails teasing over one of his arse cheeks. He ruts into her involuntarily, and he feels the curve of her mouth over his. He can't help it. It's been such a long time since he was last with a woman, and he has dreamed of this moment with Daenerys for so long. She doesn't seem to mind at all—in fact, she arches up against him and he feels the warm wetness of her against his stomach.

_She wants him._

He wants to be slow but it's impossible; nor is it what Daenerys seems to want. This oppressive weather has made a monster out of her, and there is nothing but primal desperation in her every move as she slips her hand between them and strokes his cock from root to tip, her thumb teasing the fleshy head. Jorah can't stop his breathless grunt; hot pleasure blooms in his stomach and explodes outwards, manifesting itself in the sticky wetness that weeps from the head of his cock. She massages it into the rest of his length, her movements sure and slight, but nor does she seem to be in the mood for teasing.

"I want you inside me," she whispers, silky sin dripping from her tongue. She wants him to think of her as just Daenerys in this moment and he wants that too, but those little niggles are there in the back of his mind; she is the queen of Westeros and he is nothing more than a disgraced knight. What would the people of Westeros say if they knew?

Daenerys has shared herself with one of the fiercest fighters in the world in the shape of Khal Drogo; she's bedded another brave warrior and member of the most beloved house in the north in the form of Jon Snow—Jon Targaryen as he I known these days.

_I want you._

She'd bedded Daario because she'd wanted him. The son of a whore, arrogant and charming and nothing like the kind of man she's expected to take.

There's something a little exciting, he supposes, about the forbidden, about being on the same level as roguish, handsome Daario in terms of suitability…though of course he cannot fool himself entirely, for the sellsword had been young and fit, and he is anything but these days.

Not that Daenerys seems to notice. She claws at him with urgency, her eyes burning coals upon him as she widens her thighs and undulates her lower half against him, the heel of her foot nudging him closer.

He knows what she wants, but he resists her. This might be his only time with her. She's bound to come to her senses. If this night is to be the only night he ever has with her, he wants to have loved her properly. To have something to commit to memory. To know that whatever else happens, he worshipped her the way she deserves to be worshipped every single day of her life.

Instead of sliding forwards and slipping into her welcoming warmth he slips free entirely, moving his body away from hers, running his mouth from her chin down her throat, her clavicle, veering off to tease at her breast. He encourages her nipple into a pink bud, stiff beneath his tongue, presses wet kisses to the swell of her breast before returning to the turgid point and taking it delicately between his teeth, pulling on it until she moans. Satisfied that she likes his ministrations, he turns his attention to her other breast, ensuring he gives it exactly the same attention as the first. Her fingers tangle in the sweaty curls at the back of his neck, and she whispers sweetly incoherent words into the heavy night air. They give him all the encouragement he needs.

He travels lower, drifts his lips over her navel, dips his tongue out to taste the hollow of her stomach. She sucks in a sharp breath, surges desperately against him. He takes the cue, running his nose further down until he's pressed against the soft curls over her sex.

His tongue darts out. Just once. Testing. Daenerys moans, her fingers scrunching tight in the bed sheets. Her thighs fall even further apart around him, giving all of herself to him.

He dives right in.

Runs his tongue over her slick nether lips, savouring the taste of her on his tongue. It's better than he'd ever thought it could be, the sweetest honey a bear could ever wish for.

She's so aroused for him. It's something he was resigned to only ever experiencing in his lonely dreams.

The reality is better than he could ever have hoped for.

"Jorah."

Her voice is thick with desire, rough and gravelly. It's a tone he's never heard from her before, and his cock pulses eagerly at the sound. Always eager to please her, that's what he is, in whatever capacity she allows.

The capacity doesn't get more intimate than this. His mouth on the most secret part of her, parting her folds, seeking out more of that wetness. Her thighs tremble around his ears, the muscles tensing, and he slips a forefinger between them. It slides inside with no resistance at all, and he can't stop himself from moaning into her sodden flesh, the vibrations no doubt reverberating through her and making her groan in turn. Her fingers are tight in his hair and she guides him where she wants him, at the little hard nub at the top of her sex. Jorah latches on to it at once, flicking his tongue with expert strokes against it, crooking his finger. Her walls flutter around him, and he rubs his finger against her deliberately, seeking out that the places that affect her the most.

He brushes one spot, and she stiffens, her fingers tightening to an almost painful degree in his hair.

"Gods," she breathes, resonant and low, "gods."

He redoubles his efforts there, needing to hear the sound again, and her breathing quickens and deepens, coming faster and faster—

He sucks her clit into his mouth.

She falls apart under his ministrations with a low whine.

In the quiet aftermath he kisses her down from her high, careful to avoid the areas which are still too sensitive. Pressing a final kiss to the inside of her thigh, he eases her legs from over his shoulders and pushes himself up to cup her cheek. Her eyes blaze, and she leans forward to catch his lips, attacking him with gusto, tongue thrusting into his mouth to taste herself. His cock throbs as her hand slides down the centre of his chest, enticingly close, and he can't stop himself from thrusting into her hand when she runs her palm along the length of him. That pleases her; she pulls away with a smile wide.

"Now," she demands of him, "I don't want to wait a second longer."

He cannot disobey an order from his queen.

He hisses an expletive as he pushes himself into her welcoming wetness, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Gods, she feels so good. She seems to concur, for her head falls back into her pillow and the fingers of one hand scrunch the bedsheets into a fist, the nails of the other raking down the trembling muscles in his shoulder blades. They leave a delicious burning sensation behind; he's been marked by the dragon.

"Daenerys," he breathes, nuzzling his nose against her temple.

"Oh," he hears her sigh against his neck, her breath hot, "Oh, you feel so good."

The words send a bolt of pleasure arrowing through him, and his hips jerk forward in response.

"Yes," she moans. "Yes, that's perfect, just like that."

Jorah wants to be slow with her, to take his time. He's a man of vast experience, is confident in his ability to please a woman. It's all about mapping her body, reading her signals, dedicating himself to the learning of her. Women can't resist it. And it's how a woman should be treated, for they are as complicated as musical instruments, hundreds of notes capable of being played.

But Daenerys doesn't seem to want it slow. She has the blood of the dragon running through her veins, and dragons do not have patience.

"More," she demands of him. "More!"

And he can't deny her anything. Breaths huff out of him in short, sharp puffs. The bed creaks under their combined weight. And Daenerys—_gods_, Daenerys—simply cannot keep quiet. Her moans ring out like dragon song, high and keening, and they spur him on. He's never heard a more beautiful sound. Slick flesh slaps against slick flesh, faster, faster, until he feels like he'll burst into flames. He feels the fluttering in her mound, the tell-tale sign that he's pushing her close to the edge. His cock pulses in answer. He's not going to last, not when she looks and sounds like she does. Desperately, he slips his hand between their bodies, finds the slick nub nestled at the top of her sex, rubs it in short, sharp circles that matches the pace of his pistoning hips. Daenerys cries out louder, tightening around him. He can't hold on any longer.

Thankfully, neither can she. Her body arches upwards, she spasms around him…

And he soars too, joining her with his own guttural cry, pumping his hips once, twice, thrice more to prolong the pleasure that sizzles through his body.

Ringing silence remains. Despite his best efforts the strength has leeched out of his body, and he sinks down on top of her, his head dropping into the crook of her neck. It's uncomfortable, far too hot in the unseasonable heat, but he cannot bring himself to part from her, not yet. For her part Daenerys does not seem to want to lose him either, cradling him gently between her thighs, knees pressed to his hips, fingers smoothing out the tangles in his curls. Her nails feel good against his scalp, even better against his trembling shoulder blades as she continues the journey down and back up again. It seems that this moment will last forever, freezing them in stone.

Moments never last; time is the cruellest mistress of all. As Jorah recovers his faculties enough to regain self-awareness, he is hit all over again with the insanity of the situation. Daenerys is queen, he is Lord Commander of her Queensguard. And now they have blurred lines that she has made clear on several occasions will never be blurred by the two of them together.

But dragons demand and he was foolish enough to serve. He has vowed always to serve her, but he should not have compromised his own heart. He's suffered enough heartbreak, unwitting or no, and he should never have been stupid enough to allow himself into this position, for he does not know how he will give all of himself, body and soul and heart, and only have an empty vessel in return. Could he have done it at one point? Perhaps. But he's in far too deep now to claw his way out of it, and he cannot bear the thought of this being but one fleeting moment in time, a moment of painful beauty before she withdraws and robes herself as Queen Daenerys once more.

Does she sense the melancholy of his thoughts? Her arms tighten around him. Her nose trails along the line of his temple as she moves to press a kiss to his forehead.

Speaks three words into the humid air between them, sacred as any oath a knight might swear to his queen and his queen might make to the realm in turn.

Three words which will shape the rest of her reign.

_I love you._


	2. Ad Interim

**A/N:** Additional tags-light bondage; light angst.

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_2\. Ad Interim_

There's a feverish light in Daenerys' eyes this night when he comes to her. The Unsullied soldier on duty nods at him when he passes, then takes his leave; they've come to learn that there's no reason for them to linger when Ser Jorah Mormont arrives.

He is conflicted about the nature of their relationship being out in the open. Whilst it's been reassuring to see Daenerys not shying away from the truth at all, he knows that many whisper and snigger about it behind his back.

No one irritates him more than Tyrion Lannister, who never fails to pass up the opportunity to make ribald jokes out of the queen's earshot.

All of that melts away the moment he's back in her presence. Daenerys turns away from the window, eyes shining like Drogon's might when faced with a tasty meal, and he swallows hard. It's a look he's now well-familiar with. His queen is in a rare mood.

"Ser Jorah," she says, the formality making his breeches tighten treacherously. "You've kept me waiting."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," he responds, playing along, clasping his hands deferentially in front of him, bowing his head in subservience.

"You know I hate to be kept waiting."

"I know."

"Well? What could possibly have been important enough to keep you away?"

Tyrion, of course, with his incessant pressing about their relationship, because he knows exactly how much it gets under his skin. He will not admit that to her, though; his pride would not take it. And Daenerys would find it more amusing than anything else. She is a woman confident in her sexuality and what she wants.

There's something she wants now, he can tell by that glint.

"Well?" she demands.

"I'm sorry," he apologises again.

"I'm afraid that that isn't good enough," she tells him.

"I will make it up to you, my queen."

"You will. I shall take up your punishment myself."

Punishment. The word sends a hot chill flaring up his spine. His cock twitches.

She must sense his reaction, for she raises one of those expressive eyebrows at him, a smirk broad across her lips. She is a woman and a queen who knows exactly what to expect from her most faithful knight. Others might be emasculated, but not he. He knows what a miracle stands before him, and how lucky he is to be the one sharing her journey from beginning to end, in capacity of lover now as well as advisor. He will never take that for granted.

Daenerys does not seem in the mood for such deep issues tonight, however. Her eyes rove without shame over his form. She crosses the room to the four poster bed which dominates most of the space and sits back on her hands as if she is watching a performance at a feast.

"Remove everything but your breeches," she informs him.

Jorah's pulse quickens, and he moves his hands to his sword belt at once. The atmosphere thickens as he loosens the Valyrian steel from his side—her gift to him, forged with Drogon's breath and his most prized possession—and rears it against the side of her drawers. He makes quick work of his lord commander's armour, deconstructing himself piece by piece until he is no longer a knight and only a man. She sweeps her gaze over his bare chest with calculated deliberation, humming her appreciation. It's not something he understands, her attraction to him, but there can be no misconstruing the desire in her gaze. He isn't sure how she can find his body arousing when she has been accustomed to the kinds of men that she has been with in the past, none mangled like him, but the gods have seen fit to bless him with this gift and he isn't fool enough to question it. He stands to attention before her, instructions followed to the letter, meeting her gaze with pride a she drinks all of him in. His cock presses uncomfortably against the front of his breeches; there's no hiding the beast that stirs in its lair.

"Join me," says Daenerys, beckoning him forward. He moves at once, following her as she shuffles backwards to create more room for him. His instincts are sharp; they share one mind. Daenerys wants him to lie back on the bed and he follows her unspoken command at once, reclining against her plush pillows.

Breathing speeding up in anticipation.

Tension crackles.

Idly, Daenerys reaches out to run her nails down his bare chest, taking great pains to catch his nipples in the process. Jorah can't swallow back his groan. Since the removal of the greyscale, the scar tissue left behind is particularly sensitive to the touch, and Daenerys uses that to her advantage each and every time. She traces one of them now with her tongue, from sternum to stomach, veering off on the jagged story it tells, never taking her eyes from his. He sucks in a sharp breath when her tongue laves around the bud of his nipple, sucking and kissing until it's a hard little peak, wet with her saliva. His cock rubs urgently against his breeches and he tries to alleviate some of that by pressing himself up against her, finding the warm crevice between her thighs, burning even now through the thin layers of her own clothes. But the relief lasts mere seconds before she shifts further down, pressing her weight over his knees. Jorah grunts, reaching out for her hips, but she catches his hands and pushes them back to the mattress, the odd gleam reappearing anew. He pauses.

"Khaleesi?" he says, mouth drying. It's a term of endearment he can't stop, and her grin widens.

"Ser Jorah," she mimics, scratching her nails against the taut skin of his stomach. The tingles arrow straight down to his cock, and he huffs in a mix of frustration and yearning, reaching out for her once more. She pushes his hands back down with firm regality.

"What did I say earlier?" she says.

"What?" he pants, addled as she continues to run her fingers over his torso, leaving fire in their wake.

"You kept me waiting," she explains again, the formality of her voice making him arch up unbidden. "And now you need to serve your punishment."

"Yes, Khaleesi," he moans, running through with liquid flame. "I am yours to command."

Smirking, she rummages behind her, dangling leather straps from her fingertips. He furrows his brows at her, not quite comprehending, although the pulse of his cock lets him know that whatever she might have planned for him, he's going to enjoy. A whipping, perhaps? Gods, it's the kind of thing Tyrion would tell him about LIttlefinger's brothels in the past after the wine has made him even more lecherous than usual, but he's never given it any thought himself, certainly not something he would ordinarily have said he was interested in for _himself_…

Before he can think about those confusing, conflicting feeling any further, Daenerys has grabbed hold of one of his wrists, looping the smooth leather around it.

_Now _he understands, and he swallows hard. He's too surprised to say anything as she secure his first wrist to the bed post and makes a start on the second.

"There," she says triumphantly. "For your crimes, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I sentence you to the punishment of watching and waiting yourself."

Her hands move to his breeches. And there's nothing he can do to stop her.

Daenerys is the most extraordinary woman he has ever met for more reasons than one. Not just for the magic and myth of her, the Mother of Dragons, the woman destined to break the wheel. She is extraordinary for her gentle heart, her empathy, her quick wit, her grit and determination. The people of Bear Island have the strength of ten mainlanders, and Daenerys Targaryen would fit in with them handsomely.

Dragons and bears are not so dissimilar, Lyanna Mormont will tell them one day, and he'll know the grudging respect of a hard-faced northern lady—and a lady from his homeland at that—means a great deal to Daenerys.

That determination is on display now, but it is being used against him. She eases his breeches down his hips and tugs them off entirely, leaving him completely exposed. His cock stands to attention, red and already beginning to weep. He simply cannot help his reaction to her. Years of wanting her have made him embarrassingly susceptible to her every touch, and she knows it; she runs her index finger down the side of his glands with another quirk of the eyebrow. He grunts, hips surging forward helplessly, but she stops as soon as he moves.

He should have known her threat to punish him was sincere.

Daenerys shuffles away from him, rising up on her knees and drawing her thin nightgown up over her head and casting it aside. He groans again at the sight of her full breasts, dusky rose nipples hardening in the air. She crawls towards him on hands and knees, bending down to run the top of her nose down his, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. She's gone before he can respond, moving her attention to the shell of his ear instead. Her tongue is warm and wet and maddening.

"Daenerys," he breathes; instinctively, he tugs against his bindings, yearning to reach out and wrap her in his arms. There's nothing in the world he enjoys more than that, running his hands over her curves, touching her wherever he can. As long as he lives he will never forget the ice in her tone when she told him never to touch her again. He will never take for granted the privilege of touching her, but it's even more exasperating now that he can't touch her for himself.

The ends of her hair tickle his skin, and he feels the curve of her smile against his neck as she trails her lips over the sinew. He squirms away from her nails as they run down his sides. Her mouth follows the path, blessing each inch of skin she comes across. It's a gloriously erotic feeling, and a rare one too; it's not often that he's completely at her mercy in this manner. He prefers to be the one serving her, for she is the kind of woman who deserves to be blessed over and over again.

And yet, somehow, Daenerys enjoys doing this to him too. Enjoys touching him, kissing him, learning every crevice of his body. Taking advantage of her opportunity to touch him freely.

Touches him with a tenderness he's never experienced before. Mouths the jut of his hip bones, runs her tongue along the ridge of his pelvis, down, down…

He can't suppress his groan as her hot breath blows against the tip of his straining cock, his hips arching forward involuntarily, desperate for any kind of stimulation.

"What's wrong?" she asks him innocently. She presses her palm against his thigh, and the muscles tense up unbidden.

"Nothing, my queen," he murmurs. He knows how this playful game works. If he wants to be rewarded—and he _will _be rewarded—then he needs to play by her rules.

Even if it leaves him squirming and on the verge of finishing like a green boy.

Daenerys is pleased with him; she shifts further down the bed, pushing his willing knees open so that she can lay between them. Jorah cranes his head a little to peer down into those smoky violet eyes, almost royal purple in hue, coloured so with her lust.

Her mouth moves to the inside of his thigh, and he bites his tongue so hard he almost tastes blood. The dragon toys with her bear, and the bear is unable to resist the promise of honey. He tightens the muscles in his arse in an attempt to keep his hips cemented to the bed, but that only heightens the feelings as her mouth explores the sensitive area, so close to where he needs her to be.

The leather straps around his wrist which strain as he pulls against them mock him.

"Ser? Is there something you wish to say?"

He grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"That's good," she says…and runs her nose down the thick vein on the side of his cock.

"Fuck." The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it, but Daenerys simply encourages him with her lips brushing against the crown of his head. Gods, he wants her so very much…

There's no mistaking what she's going to do, and he quivers in anticipation. He enjoys having a woman's mouth on him, of course he does. He'd just not expected it from his queen.

Every nerve in his body longs for it, but he is still a knight, and she is his whole world.

"My queen," he gasps. "You don't—"

He stops short when her tongue slips out to tickle him, choking on whatever else he might have been about to say.

"I don't what?" she challenges him. Her fingernails press into his thighs just slightly, reminding him that dragons have claws as well as teeth and fire in their bellies.

Respect for his queen compels him to continue. "You don't need to do that, Daenerys."

"Do what?" She's all faux-innocence, her mouth so unbearably close to where he craves her. "Speak plain, Ser Jorah."

He squeezes his eyes closed, stubborn as anyone from Bear Island. "You are a queen. You don't need to sully yourself so."

Silence. Daenerys shifts back, and he forces his eyes open at the movement. Gone is the playfulness; she's frowning now.

"Is that what you think?" she demands. "That I shouldn't do this? That it's an act for whores?"

"No, of course not!" he says, pulling against the ties as he forgets his vulnerable state. The last thing he ever wishes to do is offend her.

"Then why object? I told you, I am not a queen here. I am simply a woman, and as a woman I am entitled to explore the things that make me curious."

There is some of that old naivety there, the young girl behind the woman. It will never be as simple as that; no matter what, she will always be the queen. She might want to push it aside, but it is an inescapable fact. Her duty will always come first, even if she thinks that it's something that can be forgotten for a time.

He won't forget. Because as she is queen first and woman second, so too is he Lord Commander first and man second. His duty will always be to protect her, whether that's from outside forces, herself, _him_.

"Khaleesi—" he tries.

"No," she stops him forcefully. "Not Khaleesi, not Your Grace, not now. Right now I am Daenerys."

"Daenerys—"

But she overrides him again, amethyst eyes flashing. "Do you need reminding of your place, ser?"

Shame floods him. Yes, his place in her household, in the world she is building…

"I love you." Her words stop his heart. "I love you, Jorah. That's the only thing that matters."

It's not, he knows that. In reality, it's the least important thing. Her feelings, his feelings, mean nothing in the wake of politics. But Daenerys seems determined to disprove that, and he does not wish to argue with her. Not now. So he inclines his head.

Daenerys lips tug upwards slightly, her silent agreement that they should put the subject to one side for the time being. When he remains still, she takes it as his assent to continue, and she slides back down his body, the ends of her silken moonlit-kissed hair tickling his thighs. Now he can't bite back a groan.

And nothing on earth would give him the strength to pull away as her questing mouth finds the tip of his cock. He shudders, his hips arching instinctively.

"Gods," he groans. His voice seems to be the last encouragement she needs. Her mouth descends on him with greedy need.

There is no woman alive who knows his body as well as Daenerys Targaryen does. He has bared himself to her in all ways, shared heart and body and soul. Over the months she has learned him well, trailed her fingers and mouth over every inch of him, and he is but a helpless instrument at her command, responding to every touch until she knows the places and motions that affect him the most.

And so she uses her knowledge to her advantage now: her tongue teases the ridge of his fleshy head, then sweeps over the fullness of its bulb. He's weeping for her already, and she maintains eye contact as she circles it slowly, drinking him in.

And his wrists burn painfully against the leather straps as she descends down on him fully, her tongue sly and swirling, one hand moving to grasp the part of him that she can't fit in her mouth, the other moving to rake her nails over the inside of his thigh; he tugs against his restraints, a man driven to the edge of madness.

He feels her smile around his cock, and somehow that's even more sinful. She rewards him with a few concise laps, her head bobbing back and forth as she hollows her throat to take as much of him in as she can. He tenses, feeling the knot at the base of his cock. Gods, if she carries on like that he'll spill down her throat—

"Khaleesi," he pleads, his fingers flexing uselessly, trying to make her understand as his hips strain forward of their own volition.

Thankfully, she seems able to read the hitch in his breathing, for she pulls away from him with one last languid lick to the crown of his cock. She makes sure she has his full attention as she runs that tongue over her teeth, a lewd savouring of his taste. The blood in his veins is far too hot, sizzling like dragonfire beneath his skin. Daenerys shifts up his body to kiss him fiercely, her tongue plundering his mouth. He tastes himself on her tongue, and he moans into her mouth at the wickedness of it.

"You are mine and I am yours," she tells him, trapping his head between her arms. "No matter what anyone says. They can't take this away from us."

It could all be taken away in a single moment. A misplaced sword, sudden fever, a rebellion. The Long Night had proven that to them both. Death could have snatched him at any moment, and it was sheer luck alone that had got him here.

But above all Daenerys is an idealist, a dreamer, still a young woman in a world that had been cruel to her all of her life.

In the day, when they are in their roles, it's his duty to counsel her, to show her different sides to arguments which she might not have thought of, to temper some of her impulsiveness and to protect her no matter what.

But here, for the moment at least, he can indulge her. He does not want to quarrel. And the words he spoke to Ser Barristan all those years ago across the Narrow Sea are as true now as they've ever been: he believes in her with all his heart.

"I am yours," he echoes, the oath of fealty he'll swear for the rest of his days. Daenerys relaxes atop him; he feels the tension in her muscles leech away and knows that this particular storm has passed without incident. It's one that is sure to revisit, but that's for another time. A more formal setting. Not these quarters, not this night, not when they are man and woman.

Tenderly she runs her fingertips up the sensitive skin of his inner arms, and he jerks forwards in his restraints, grunting. It seems to be the last sign she needs, for in the next moment she's easing herself over him. Jorah swears aloud as her she slides over the ridge of his cock. She's as aroused as he is, and he hasn't even touched her. That's his dragon queen—someone born to rule. She will rule him for the rest of her days.

She sets up a rapid pace against him, evidently too aroused to try for any of the seductive teasing she is infamous for. He thanks the gods aloud in guttural grunts and half-nonsensical words as she undulates against him, the wet heat of her enough to drive him to madness. His wrists will be covered in angry sores from the way he is straining against his binds, and they are unyielding; he will not be getting his hands on her today. Somehow, that's even more erotic, being at her mercy in every single way. As he always will be. His hips arch up into her of their own accord, a primal call he cannot ignore. This is what she reduces him to—a collection of organs longing for nothing but the end with her.

She sits up on him, strong thighs gripping his hips like she would the flanks of her mare, breasts bouncing as she rocks against him, and he groans, frantic with the urge to touch them, to cup their soft firmness in his palms and to rub the pad of his thumb over the rough ridge of her nipple. Better still, to suck those peaks into his mouth, to nibble at them with his teeth and feel their seductive hardness against the roll of his tongue, her body arching closer to his because he knows just what she likes.

Daenerys isn't giving up one inch of her control tonight. The dragon queen is too accustomed to getting her own way. She submits to him sometimes, on rare occasions, but tonight he is her prey. He swallows hard as he takes in the sight of all of her, skin silvered by the moonlight and shadowed by the flicker of candles, watches as she sits there upon him as she sits upon her throne, straight-backed and proud…her hand snaking its way between her thighs to her slick pearl. And there she sits, his queen of love and beauty, touching herself, playing the familiar strings that he has played upon her body a hundred times before, her soft moans growing in pitch, eyes a deep shade of velvet, the cadence of her rolling hips becoming more like the violent waves at sea as the eye of the storm approaches. Unpredictable, fierce, rising, rising…

Cresting. Daenerys makes a soft, guttural sound in the back of her throat, and Jorah feels the fluttering of her walls around him.

It's too much. His arms jerk reflexively, and the majestic headboard groans threateningly as he strains against his bonds. Thick, warm pleasure fizzes through his head, and the tight ball low down in his belly explodes, his whole body trembling with the sheer _pleasure _of it.

"Khaleesi," he incants, "Khaleesi." Over and over and over, a prayer he will say every day for her. Gods don't exist. There is just one goddess.

She sinks down against him, skin sticky with sweat. He can't bring himself to care that it's a little bit uncomfortable. She is all he's wanted for so long now; any discomfort is worth it to be in her presence this way. She presses a kiss against his clavicle, and he nuzzles his nose against the damp hair at her temple.

It's only when his arms drop rather unceremoniously back to his sides that he realises he's free once more. He huffs. His arms tingle, the blood rushing back into his limbs. The tips of his fingers have gone numb, and there are angry red welts where he strained against the bindings. Daenerys' own fingers are on him at once, her fingertips smoothing over those harsh indentations.

"Are you all right?" she asks, voice softer than the incantations offered by the red priests. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

The idea of this beautiful, slight woman physically harming him brings a reluctant smile to his face. Oh, Daenerys Targaryen isn't innocent. She's hurt him a thousand times over in the past, and though he hates to think about it, doubtless she will hurt him a thousand times more before he dies. The harsh words she'd spat like fire have charred his soul, never to fully heal because he won't _allow _them to, picking at the scabs over and over to bleed anew. But physically?

"I've had worse," he tells her, moving his left arm with great difficulty so he can drape it over the small of her back. She is not to be deterred, pushing herself up against his chest so she can peer down into his face. The shadows have come to dance, right there across her features.

"Would you tell me?" she insists. "If I hurt you?"

"Aye," he says, a lie he has to tell them both. Daenerys' choices mean that she will forever be bound by duty, just the same as him. Queen and knight, never to be truly together.

One day she _will _be forced to make a match with a noble lord, for the satisfaction of her council, the people of King's Landing, the realm. She says that she loves him and he believes her when she says it, for Daenerys has never spoken mistruly to him, as she might have to other men, but this is not a song. True love does not conquer all, even at the command of a queen with the strength and grace and fire of a dragon.

What Daenerys decides to do is not something he should trouble himself with. Perhaps she will want a political marriage. Perhaps he will still be permitted to share her bed whilst the rest of her followers turned a blind eye to their transgressions.

Perhaps she will find a worthy match and find a man better at loving her and more deserving of that love in turn. If that happens, he will need to find the strength to stand aside.

Will he be able to do it, now that he's had a taste of what it's like to be loved by her? Now that he's been swallowed by the tempest? No matter the hurt, no matter the jealousy, no matter the bitterness?

And he knows the answer is yes. No matter the cost. She might not always be his, but he will always be hers.

They're worries for another day. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps a year from now. The here and now is what is important, and the here and now has Daenerys cupping his cheek in her palm and scuffing her thumb over the rise of his cheekbone. He turns into her touch, managing to press a kiss to the meat of her palm. She smiles in response, finally sliding from his body to the mattress beside him. She doesn't stay away from him for long, rolling onto her side and looping her arm through his. She presses a kiss against the raised scar near his armpit, one of the many blades he took for her on the Long Night.

"I'm going to doze for a bit now," she mumbles.

"As is your right as queen," he says, moving to rest his cheek against the crown of her head as she rests her head against him.

"I told you, here I'm just Daenerys," she says. "A woman with a simple life with the man she loves. The rest of the kingdom waits at the door when I cross this threshold, Jorah. Now it's just me and you. There's no need to talk politics." Her fingers walk across his chest, clasping him to her tighter. He likes that, that she enjoys being so close to him, touching him. He certainly treasures being able to hold her.

And if she wants to simply forget about Westeros for a time, he would be a fool to deny her. So he vows to serve her always in these moments too, to hold on to the happiness she ignites within him, to love her best for the rest of his days.

Whatever may come.


End file.
